The Steps You Take
by Snagglepuss
Summary: Jim Gordon couldn't sleep at night. He couldn't eat, the woman he trusted most dumped him, and coffee was the only thing digestible. He was haggard version of the man he used to be. Worst of all, he was working a case where his only help was a yoga practicing, tea drinking, clumsy criminal. And everyone swore she was crazy. Jim Gordon/OC


**Not many Jim Gordon stories in this fandom. I figured I'd give it a shot. Hopefully you like it. Thanks for reading.**

 **"The Steps You Take"**

Al Dente

I could feel my pulse throb against the muzzle of a .45 as it dug into the right side of my temple. The other side of my face was smashed into the plate of spaghetti I had once called dinner. Nails gripped the back of my neck with enough strength to keep me from wriggling free.

"I'm supposed to kill you real nice and slow," spoke Berto, the man who had me trapped. "They want you skinned and for me to bring your heart back in a box, along with a plate of Tiramisu. I said to myself, 'Roberto, you and this broad go way back. She deserves something painless. Put a bullet in ha head instead'. So y'know I figured that just this one time it wouldn't hurt go against my orders."

I clawed at the bloodstained tablecloth beneath my fingers, fighting for a chance to escape. "Let me go then," I pleaded. "I'll be out of Gotham before nightfall and you'll never see me again."

"Don't be a dummy and mistake my generosity for spinelessness" he said, winding back his gun's hammer. My life didn't flash before my eyes like how everyone says it does when you're about to kick the bucket. I'd been at the mercy of Death's cold grasp many a time and by now I was used to it. I wasn't leaving behind much. The closest thing to family I had was my pug, General, but I wasn't ready to go yet. Not like this. "Ya still gotta die."

He pulled the trigger and I waited for the sting of death to overtake me. Nothing happened. He pulled it again, and again, and again but the gun never fired off. I laughed and a wave of relief rolled over me. Berto was always goddamn idiot, always had been and always would be. He forgot to load his gun.

"What the fuck?"

The grip on my neck weakened and he removed the gun from my head. I scraped against the table until something cold and hard met my hand. I grabbed whatever it was and jerked backwards out of my chair. Finally, I was free.

I stabbed him five times. Three in the face and twice in his fat neck. When he fell to the ground, blood spurting from him like faulty faucet, I jumped on top of him and choked him so hard I felt myself tremor. Then I stabbed him some more. The bastard was dead, of that I was certain.

I had to move quick. Grab my dog and leave town before the next sunrise. They'd find me if I stayed. They'd rip my heart from between my lungs and pray for Gotham's cleansing.

"GCPD! Hands on your head!"

My pounding heart hammered into my ears and my throat tightened to the size of a pinhead. My eyes burned as if I'd been maced, probably from the mixture of sweat, blood and Mr. Morelli's secret spaghetti sauce coating my face like halloween paint. A hollow feeling surfaced in the pit of my stomach. I wouldn't be escaping the city tonight.

"Came here too little too late, Officer," I said, buying myself time. Truth be told, I wasn't sure what my next move would be. Escape or cooperate. "This little piggy's cooked. Stick a fork in him."

Black suit, black tie, and crisp clean white shirt, the cop pointed a gun directly in my face. He was tall, at least from where I was standing he was. His brown hair was parted to the left and neatly combed to the side. My lip curled. What an odd looking man he was. Pathetically out of place from all the other cops you saw littering the city.

"Drop your weapon," he ordered and I would've been foolish not to comply. His voice was harsh and hoarse. "Drop your weapon, get onto your feet, and put your hands behind your head."

Very careful to not make any sudden movements, I slinked onto my feet. My hands raised to either side of me and I wriggled my fingers to make sure he saw I was weaponless. "Hands up. Don't shoot."

"You're not going to resist?" With a second glance, do-gooder cop took on a different visage. Beneath his red eyes were heavy bags. He skipped about a weeks worth of shaving and didn't hold his gun with conviction. It must've been a long night for him. "This was much easier than I initially anticipated."

He was another casualty of Gotham City. Beaten, broken, and tired.

"Lavender, chamomile, and valerian root."

"Excuse me?"

"It'll help you sleep. Get any tea with those herbs in it. Or you can try aroma therapy. That usually helps me knock out so hard, I can't hear my neighbors domestic violence disputes across the hall."

"I'm fine," he said defensively. "And make sure you tell me the address of that couple."

A sane person would've fought or attempted to escape, but I found no need in that. Truth be told, this was a sign from a higher power. There was a reason why this cop showed up and good or bad, I was along for the ride.

I extended my wrists, readying them to be cuffed. "Take me with you and I'll tell you everything you want."


End file.
